Leaving Wayside

"Leaving Wayside"
-- Poet Darká

Love is a joke I play upon myself,
With a hearty laugh and mid-April furies.
Like the weather outside, so random,
That I can smile and inside be flurries
If not a raging storm of worries.

What October had brought to my door,
November and December would swear.
You told me again the next winter
That you would surely, positively be there.
Alas it is a ghost at which I stare.

Call me a lost romantic to say this,
But love has betrayed me thus thrice.
It may be a heartless thing to say of love--
Though to me love hasn't been nice
And I'm through bestowing the sacrifice.

The wayside should not be my home.
I'm through waiting for events to pass.
I've been led along long enough by you
And the false promises you amass.
I can surely find a greener grass.